Three Women
by Celli
Summary: "Now must I these three praise / Three women that have wrought / What joy is in my days..." Sark ruminates on his mother, his mentor, and his match.


Feedback: Positive or negative both welcome.   
celli@fanfic101.com   
Category: uh...general?  
Rating: PG-13 for mention of violence.   
Pairing: none.  
Spoilers: Through "The Enemy Walks In."  
Summary: "Now must I these three praise / Three women that   
have wrought / What joy is in my days..." Sark ruminates on   
his mother, his mentor, and his match.  
Archiving: Cover Me, and my site (www.fanfic101.com);   
anyone else please just let me know.  
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, and various   
other people with lawyers. Fortunately, this means that   
Sark does not spend much time in my head.  
Notes: Thanks to my beta-readers: Karen T and Robin, with   
encouragement from Gail, JenC, and Jenai.  
  
This story is for Rach, whose birthday was actually   
October 15, but for me this is early. *g* Happy birthday!  
  
***  
  
Three Women  
by Celli Lane  
  
***  
  
I. Fionna Hackett  
  
One because no thought...  
Could ever come between  
Mind and delighted mind...  
  
I was raised on stories of fairies and kings and saints,   
each more magical than the next. (Yes, I know saints were   
holy rather than magical, but I could never tell the   
difference.) My ma and I were Hacketts, of a clan   
descended from the little people themselves, to hear them   
tell of it. And they told often.  
  
She was always one to hedge her bets. She named me Patrick   
for the saint and Conal for the king that the fairies   
loved. And my ma's family, they were as close to nobility   
as you could get in that little village outside Galway   
without having any money or position.  
  
Everyone always assumes I was abandoned in a churchyard or   
whipped by my teacher or some such. Those with nothing   
better to do with their time than hyper-analyze my   
"deficits" like to blame them on my fatherless upbringing.   
Truth is, I never needed a da; I had a grandfather, uncle,   
and cousins, but mostly I had her. She raised me with love   
and warmth and a joy that made even a hundred-times-told   
tale seem new. I was everything to her, and she was   
everything to me.  
  
So of course she died.  
  
***  
  
I was seven. We'd gone all the way to Dublin--funny that I   
don't remember why. Some sort of holiday, I suppose.   
After two days of traveling, I remember being excited and   
tired and, well, seven, so Ma probably had her hands full   
with me. She took me into a side street, sat right down on   
the curb with me in her lap, and started a story.  
  
"There once was a great king of the west..."  
  
She had nearly lulled me to sleep when a loud noise stopped   
the story. I looked up, and to put it simply, her face was   
gone.  
  
She toppled over, still holding me. There were more loud   
sounds. There was screaming. Then the soldiers. Then--I   
don't remember the then.  
  
***  
  
As it happens, that side street had a boarding house where   
British embassy workers lived. Ma was shot by IRA hotheads   
who seemed sorrier for missing the British than for hitting   
my mother.   
  
My mother taught me that the Irish kill for love, God, and   
politics. I kill for money, ambition, and, when the mood   
is upon me, ego. But then, I'm not Irish.  
  
***  
  
II: Irina Derevko  
  
And one because her hand   
had strength that could unbind  
What none can have and thrive...  
  
The settlement from Sinn Fein, and some judicious   
investing, bought me an entirely new identity (Sark is an   
island which, as far as I could tell, was the furthest spot   
in the country from Galway), enough education to eradicate   
the last of my accent, and my first gun. I was using it to   
make my name as an assassin when I came to Irina Derevko's   
attention.  
  
"So you're Philip Sark," she said.  
  
I'd just been chloroformed and thrown in the back of a   
sedan, but I tried to look blase about the whole thing. "I   
am." I smoothed the front of my jacket as best I could.   
"So, madam, did you bring me here to kill me or interrogate   
me?"  
  
She didn't laugh. Not once in ten years have I heard   
Derevko laugh. But she smiled.  
  
"Actually, Mr. Sark, I'm offering you an opportunity. If   
you take advantage of it, more will follow. If you   
fail...to take advantage...then let's just say I won't   
interrogate you."  
  
***  
  
"Intelligence," she said once, "is not a man's business.   
Oh, the men think so. But in addition to the obvious   
sexual advantages our gender gives us, women can also take   
advantage of the cultural bias against us. A fawning   
mistress or a mother with a harried look and a diaper bag--  
easily ignored. Women always, always have the element of   
surprise, Mr. Sark."  
  
Since she'd just used that element to garrote an African   
head of state, I merely smiled and nodded.  
  
She underestimates men, though. She underestimates me.   
It's her one weakness, this assumption that she is superior   
to all of us all the time. Perhaps it's true now, but no   
one can prepare entirely for the element of surprise.  
  
***  
  
If Rambaldi indeed chose Derevko to further some grand   
scheme--and from Haladki's intel, I find that likely--he   
could not have chosen better. She is a woman who, having   
once decided on an agenda, will not waver. I've seen her   
work her way through seven backup plans to take out a   
target. She takes some of her blackmail pictures   
personally, to ensure the best possible coverage.  
  
So when she gave me control of the organization and   
promised to return in a year, there was no arguing with   
her, no asking questions or expressing concern. This is   
the greatest of many opportunities she's offered me, and I   
intend to take full advantage of it. And when she   
returns...well, that's another agenda altogether, isn't it?  
  
Because it's the reason for her absence that has finally   
revealed her weakness. Her attachment--I won't call it   
love--for her child.  
  
***  
  
III. Sydney Bristow  
  
And what of her that took  
All till my youth was gone  
With scarce a pitying look?  
How could I praise that one...?  
  
The first time I saw Sydney Bristow's dossier, it was on   
Derevko's desk. She was paging through it with an   
intensity she usually reserved for choosing dinner wines   
and assault rifles.  
  
"A new player?" I asked as I sat down.  
  
"Not precisely. An older player coming into new   
prominence." She passed me the folder. "Agent Bristow is   
an SD-6 agent who has just been turned."  
  
"By whom?" We'd been trying to get a good recruit from SD-  
6 for several years, but they were all so damned patriotic.   
Worse than the real CIA, even--although we'd had some luck   
with the FBI. Then the last name registered.   
"Any...ah...relation to Jack Bristow?"  
  
"Daughter," she said simply.  
  
"I see." Bristow does look remarkably like her mother. I   
looked away from the picture and said quickly, "So the CIA   
turned her?"  
  
"Yes, although I doubt that's the terminology they used."  
  
I shrugged. "One agency is much the same as another. What   
matters is the work."  
  
***  
  
I read scattered reports on Agent Bristow over the next   
several months. She figured prominently in many of Agent   
Haladki's debriefings. After you filtered out the sexism   
and blatant envy coloring his reports, it was obvious that   
she was a gifted field agent. Given her DNA, I was not   
surprised. But I found myself a bit bored with the   
obsession Haladki, Derevko, and even Khasinau had with the   
girl.  
  
And then came Denpasar.  
  
***  
  
You understand, it wasn't until Dixon came in and she   
panicked that I realized with whom I'd been fighting. But   
she's good. She's very, very good. Agile, strong, and   
clever--which she needs to balance out the bloody fools   
working with her. They deserved to lose me to SD-6.  
  
***  
  
I won't deny the temptation to reveal Bristow's true status   
to Arvin Sloane. Two things stopped me. One, Derevko   
would remove my spleen with her fingernails once she saw me   
again. Two...all right, I'll admit that my boredom had   
shifted to just a hint of intrigue. Just what is Sydney   
Bristow capable of? How many agendas can she juggle at   
once? How far can she be pushed, and by whom?  
  
I often fantasized, when I first met Derevko, about meeting   
her in battle. Not necessarily hand-to-hand combat, but   
the undeclared war that marks global intelligence. I was   
content to be her employee, for a time, but I always wanted   
to know if I could defeat a master of the game.  
  
Bristow's attraction? I have the chance to watch her   
become a master. To enjoy her position at the forefront of   
the intelligence world. And then I'll break her.  
  
--the end--  
  
The poem quoted is "Friends" by W.B. Yeats. The fairy   
stories used are from "Fairy and Folk Tales of Ireland,"   
which he edited. See what happens when my computer breaks   
and I have to go to the library every day? :) 


End file.
